


Seeking Serenity

by LaKoda0518



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, Captain John Watson, Fear, Gen, John Watson Has Issues, John Watson Has PTSD, John Watson is Alone, John Whump, Lonely John, Matchmaker Mike Stamford, Nightmares, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Prequel, Suicidal John Watson, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29382828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaKoda0518/pseuds/LaKoda0518
Summary: Plagued with night terrors and severe PTSD, John Watson's mind is a war zone and life just isn't worth living anymore... until a chance meeting catches him offguard.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	Seeking Serenity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WritingOutLoud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/gifts).



> SEVERE TRIGGER WARNING: PTSD AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS!
> 
> Hey, ya'll! Finally getting around to getting this uploaded! My latest Patreon poll was all about angst lol and my lovely patrons wanted PTSD and Suicidal John Watson, so here it is! This was a fun little character analysis and I was so excited while writing it lol I feel bad for torturing him but I promise he will get some Sherlock love in a later fic ;) Maybe even a short little ficlet for Valentine's Day xoxoxo Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoy this one!
> 
> Special thanks to CarmillaCarmine and WritingOutLoud for reading it over and a special shoutout to WritingOutLoud for betaing the shit out of it lol It needed it!! *all the hugs and love to you both*\
> 
> Gifting this work to WritingOutLoud as a thank you for bringing out my inner torture slut lol Ever since we started writing together, I've started writing MCD and torturing the boys way more often than I used to LOL Thank you for inspiring me to try something new!

“No… Just, no… Please, no… No, no, no…”

John’s heart pounds in his chest and his breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps. Explosions echo in his head as the memories threaten to take over, but he closes his eyes and fists his hands in his hair in an attempt to block them out. He forces air into his lungs, trying his best to focus on the deep breathing exercises his therapist had made him practice. He’s supposed to ground himself during moments like this; he’s supposed to find anything he can to draw himself back to the present, but he can feel himself slipping. The darkness calls and he knows he can’t fight it for much longer. Another loud bang elicits a scream and he sinks to the floor.

It’s New Year’s Eve... 

_ New Year’s Day? _

The entire planet is celebrating; shouts of joy and excitement signal new beginnings as countless fireworks light up the night sky. January 1st is a day of transformation, a day for family and friends and fresh starts. The city of London is alight with magic and hope while everyone on earth comes together to ring in the promise of a new year, a new lease on the life they’ve been given. The world turns the page on a new chapter with the focus of living life to its fullest... But, John Watson is almost certain he’s dying.

The joyful shouts turn to screams of agony and the brilliant light of fireworks gives way to visions of terror and war. His hands are covered in blood; his fatigues are caked in mud and God knows what else. He’s too afraid to analyse it any further, but he has a feeling that the truth would turn his stomach. It wouldn’t take much with the heavy bout of nausea already lingering deep in his belly, so he shakes his head in order to clear his thoughts. His mind battles with his heart, doing its best to numb any emotions that may be clinging to his conscience as he tries to make sense of the chaos around him. 

The heat of battle consumes him. Deep down, John knows it isn't real but it's difficult to convince his mind and body of the truth. Behind him, someone is shouting; someone is calling his name and he's pulled deeper into the memory. A blast goes off overhead, knocking him backward and into the body of another soldier. Whether they're alive or dead, he doesn't know and he isn't given the chance to find out as he's hauled to his feet and shoved forward. 

In a hurried attempt to regain his balance, John nearly trips over the arm of a fallen comrade. He ignores the fact that it's most likely no longer attached to the soldier it belongs to and, instead, shifts his attention to the shouting officer behind him. The voice is muffled, almost as if John has been completely submerged in water, but a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach tells him he's being told to run. Something has gone wrong. The battle shifts before his very eyes; the bodies of his enemies and brothers alike are scattered over the ground in various stages of decay as the evening light around him begins to dim. 

A heavy weight seems to settle over his shoulders, putting a fair amount of pressure on his lungs. He draws a deep, struggling breath before letting it out slowly. None of this is real. He knows it isn't, but his memories cut like broken glass, shredding his reality into tiny fragments until he can't keep the darkness at bay any longer. If he doesn't force himself to snap out of it, he'll black out again and he really doesn't want to deal with the more horrifying bouts of the mental instability that comes after.

"Come on… Wake up… This isn't real… You can't keep letting this happen! This isn't —" 

John blinks his eyes open, gasping for breath in the darkness. The fireworks continue to pop, the crowds continue to cheer in the streets. The world is still celebrating, just as he'd left it, but John's still fighting his way through a sea of torment and he'll probably be fighting until the end of his days. His eyesight adjusts to the blurred shadows around him as he finds that he's curled up on his side, shaking and shivering. He's drenched in sweat and he realises that his jeans are soaked through.

A fresh wave of embarrassment washes over him and he lets a hand slide down to cover his face, hiding from the deafening nothingness as his tears begin to fall. It's hard for him to see how he was once a soldier at all. His country had called him brave... His commanding officers spoke of courage in the face of danger, but this wasn't courage... It was Hell. There was nothing brave or heroic about the terrors of war — about the horrifying memories that left him broken and useless. There was no glory in being afraid of your own shadow, no honour in the midst of the night terrors. The smoke of the battlefield may have cleared but the aftermath was becoming more than he could bear.

**********

A week later, he's queued up for the tube. Another uneventful shopping trip to gather the barest of essentials, another abysmal day just like all the others, but John doesn't see that changing any time soon. The throbbing pain in his shoulder aches like never before with the constant rain, and he finds himself leaning on his cane more and more as the days go by. 

_ His cane… _

John scoffs at his own thoughts, fighting the urge to grumble outwardly over the irritating new accessory he'd acquired upon his return home. Never in his life had he ever imagined himself using a bloody cane at the age of 37. Yet, here he is, hobbling along as he's ushered into the nearest vacant car along with a slew of other passengers as he does his best to stay upright while being swept along with the masses.

The cane clicks along beside him with every step he takes, the sound grating on his every nerve before he's shoved up against the opposite window of the car. It isn't an unfriendly barge — he's vaguely aware of the car filling in around him, but he takes a slight bump to the head as the cane is knocked out from underneath him for a split second and his head collides with the glass. 

"Fucking hell…" he swears, wincing and closing his eyes tight as the pain reverberates through his skull. He'd like to think the day can't get any worse — especially after the row he'd had with the chip and pin machine at the shops, but then he opens his eyes.

Staring back at him are the softest little pair of brown eyes he thinks he's ever seen, but there's something in the way they're looking at him. A few feet away, the little girl they belong to shifts uncomfortably in her seat. She doesn't look away, however; her gaze only seems to intensify as John recognises the hint of sadness that lingers there. She's looking at him like she would a lost kitten or a wounded puppy.

_ 'Pity…'  _ John thinks, trying in vain to force a tight smile over his features. He's fairly certain it looks more like an irritated grimace by the way she shys away, so he drops the expression completely. It isn't her fault that he feels this way, but something ugly is gnawing at the pit of his stomach. 

The little girl smiles warily and her eyes look him over before falling to his cane. It's clear that she's taking everything in: his rumpled appearance, the dark, tired circles under his eyes, and now the heavy dependency that he has on his cane. Deep down, he knows she means well, but he can't help the venom that rises in his throat. He swallows it down — he wouldn't lose his cool at a child on purpose — and closes his eyes once again, this time in an attempt to refocus his thoughts. 

_ 'At least the therapy is good for some things, even if it doesn't fix everything…' _

He takes a deep breath and tries to focus on the kindness he had seen in the little girl's eyes. There'd been nothing judgmental about the look, but John had hated it all the same. He hates the idea of being pitied, being looked at like something broken… like something in need of fixing. Is he broken? Yes _. _ Does he want to be treated like it every time someone lays eyes on him? No, hell, he does not, thank you very much.

The tube train slows to a halt and John's stop is called just as his anxiety begins to calm. He gathers his things, taking up his cane and checking to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything, before glancing up at the little girl one last time. She's still watching him, but this time she averts her gaze once their eyes meet and scoots a bit closer to her mother.

_ 'Nice one, Watson… You really are a monster…' _

**********

Another couple of weeks pass, but at least he's working, now. After multiple job interviews gone wrong and a million "you're extremely overqualified" excuses, John had finally gotten someone to agree to take him on. Granted, it was only locum work, but it was at St. Barts, and beggars can't be choosers when they're grasping for straws. Which is why he found it so incredibly frustrating that he was still unhappy with his life. The fact that he'd been offered any work at all should have been exactly what he needed to lift his spirits, but once again, he finds himself sitting alone in his tiny bedsit with only his thoughts for company, just as he always did. 

It's Wednesday, if he remembers correctly, and he's sitting at the little desk in his room, staring at the blank blog entry on his computer screen. His therapist had suggested writing as a way to cope with the traumatic events from his army days, but he never could seem to find anything to write about. Well… nothing he cares to have spread all over the internet, anyway. Sure, he could write about the nightmares. He could even write about the fact that he hasn't attended a football match or gone to a pub because he can't handle the crowds or the noise that comes with them, but he has no desire to open himself up to that sort of judgment. Not now, not ever. 

The whole situation is draining; the therapy feels useless, the nightmares only seem to get worse, and the pride he had once felt at being part of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers is slowly waning. After everything he had been through, John finds it harder and harder to understand how the British government could allow things to get this bad. How the hell is it fair to soldiers like himself to risk their lives as they did, laying everything on the line for their country, only to be cast aside the moment they return home and are no longer fit for service? He'd gone to war as an officer — Captain John Watson, to be exact, but had been invalided home six months into his tour after taking a bullet through the shoulder. 

The medical care he'd received when he'd first returned to the UK had been the best he could have asked for: round the clock supervision and attention due to the severity of his injuries, access to some of the best doctors in London, as well as the government checking in on his recovery while he was on the mend. However, once the discharge papers came through, everything changed. He'd been discharged from the hospital and the military on the same day and the difference in the treatment he began to receive had been blatantly obvious. 

The government no longer cares about his progress or whether or not roleplaying and breathing exercises actually help with his anxiety. They no longer keep tabs on his occupational situation or his mental state, and haven't offered any assistance with finding him a proper job since the first week of his so-called ‘retirement’ from service. All he is to them now is an identification number on a pensioner's cheque. 

Nothing about him stands out apart from the fact that his hands shake, his leg gives out at the most inconvenient times, and the bullet wound at his shoulder aches constantly. As far as the British government is concerned, John Watson is no one of consequence; John Watson is now a civilian who is expected to lead a normal, everyday life just like everyone else. 

"Pfft… good luck with that…" he mutters aloud as he bats the laptop closed in frustration, causing the small drawer just below his right hand to pop open. A short, breathy huff accompanies the roll of his eyes and he sighs in resignation. Everything else in his life was broken, so why wouldn't the desk be? 

He shifts in his seat in order to close the drawer properly but the dull glow of the overhead light glints off something in the bottom of the drawer and John's heart skips a beat.  _ 'Ah, right… The gun…'  _ he recalls, swallowing thickly. He hadn't thought anything of it after stowing it away once he'd moved into the place; he isn't supposed to have it, since possessing a firearm outside of the service is illegal in the UK, but John had felt more secure with it rather than without, so he'd kept it just in case.

He tugs the drawer open farther and eyes the handgun thoughtfully. It’s interesting, in a way, how someone had gotten the idea to construct a device that could project another object, like that of a bullet, at a speed so fast that it could prove to be fatal to humans and animals alike. The whole idea of such a deadly weapon is both fascinating and thought-provoking but John can't help the easy pull that he feels when he looks at it. 

Every ounce of fear, anxiety, and pain he'd felt since returning to the real world could all be silenced with just one pull of the trigger. It had been a bullet that had nearly claimed his life and left him like this to begin with, so the idea is only fitting. The only reason he hadn't died the first time around was, in part, due to his buddy Bill getting him off the battlefield before he'd bled out, and partly due to a fellow field surgeon recognising the onset of gangrene and treating it before he lost his life.

At the time, he'd been grateful for the fact that his life had been spared, but, lately, his outlook on that feeling is beginning to change. He could end every moment of suffering right here and now, if he wants to. He could put the gun to his head and finally find the peace of mind he's been looking for. If only he could guarantee he would be able to pull the trigger when the time came…

With yet another indignant huff, he rolls his eyes once again. No doubt he'll chicken out; even with an intense desire to go out on his own terms, John knows that, deep down, he just won't have the courage to take his own life in such a way.

But… maybe there are other ways.

Yes… he'd overheard a guy spouting off about some pills one time in the lobby of his therapist's office. The receptionist had had him removed from the premises by security, of course, but John can recall the way he'd been prattling on about the pills he'd gotten from a friend. He'd said that he was planning to use them to ensure that he never woke up again and, at the time, John had wondered why anyone would ever want to do such a thing. 

Now, he knows.

Sometimes, you reach a point in life where you realise you have taken just about all you can handle. You've carried the weight on your shoulders for long enough and you're ready to call it quits. No one else would ever need to know and, with the amount of clearance he has at St. Barts, John figures he will be able to access a wide variety of medications. He could even take it as soon as he got home… then, it wouldn't matter if anyone found out.

**********

Thursday afternoon comes and John's walking home. The pills are tucked delicately into his jacket pocket and his left hand curls protectively around them as he limps across a busy intersection. He can't wait to be rid of his cane and it isn't until then that he begins to realise the seriousness of what he's planning to do, but he pushes the uneasy feeling away. He doesn't have time for second thoughts. He doesn't have time for anything if he wants to actually go through with this, he admits to himself, and he looks around for the quickest route home. 

By cutting through the park, he can shave about ten minutes off of his usual commute and nothing in the world sounds better at this moment in time. 

His feet seem to move of their own accord as he weaves his way along the path, his cane clicking along beside him just as it always does. It's a fairly decent evening — not too warm, not too cool — and the gentle breeze seems to carry his thoughts far away from London. He thinks back to his childhood, to growing up with his sister Harry and how life had been before the car accident that had killed their father. He had been happy back then or, at least, he thought he had been. 

He thinks of family dinners and trips to the coast, the sound of his father's whistling and the scent of his mother's old perfume. It’s oddly comforting, really. Life had definitely been simpler when he was a kid, and a small part of him found it a bit ironic that, after all this time of being miserable, he was finally finding it in himself to focus on the positives in his life, but perhaps it was more common than he thought. Why wouldn't you want to think of happier times before you died?

"Watson!" called a voice behind him, shattering the barrier of his thoughts and slamming him back into the present. "John Watson!" 

John's steps falter and he closes his eyes for a brief moment before turning over his shoulder. He really doesn't have time for this, but what else can he do? He glances up to see a heavyset, bespectacled man hurrying toward him at a curious pace and he can't hide the confusion that crosses his features. 

"Stamford," the man says, panting as he finally catches up to him, "Mike Stamford." He holds out his hand in introduction, obviously looking to shake hands, and John shifts his cane to his other hand awkwardly, still not quite sure of who he's talking to, but the man seems eager to clarify. "We were at Barts together."

In an instant, John's memory kicks into gear, remembering his medical school days, and it dawns on him exactly who he's talking to. "Right, yes!" he answers, feeling completely out of his depth as usual when forced into conversation. "Sorry," he says, "Mike, yes… I, um…"

"Yeah, I know, I got fat." 

Stamford's laughter at his own self-deprecating joke sets John's nerves at ease just a bit, but he can still feel the ghost of anxiety creeping in. This wasn't how the afternoon was supposed to go, but he can't bring himself to be rude. "No—" he begins but the man just gives him a pleasant smile, carrying on without missing a beat. 

"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at, so what happened?" he asks, clearly doing his best to keep things light and casual, but John can't fight back the little stab of bitterness that washes over him.

"I got shot," he says, bluntly, and it's obvious that Stamford isn't expecting such a direct answer. His smile falters and John can't help feeling like shit for snuffing out the guy's enjoyment at seeing him again. 

With an apologetic yet tight smile, John tips his head toward a stall selling coffee a few feet away. Maybe if he buys Stamford a drink, he can reassure himself and make sure that his last act on earth isn't to make someone else feel bad for trying to talk to him.

A few minutes later, they're sitting on a bench in the park, coffees in hand, and Stamford is filling him in about everything that's gone on since John joined the army. "So, you're still at Barts then?" John asks, wondering why he hasn't seen him around the hospital, before remembering just how big the building is.

"Yeah, teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be," he answers, smiling wistfully before letting out a heavy sigh. "God, I hate them."

John lets out a snort of agreement, but before he can answer, Stamford's already turning the conversation back to him. "What about you, just staying in town while you get yourself sorted?"

This time, John scoffs and taps his foot with his cane, chewing his lip as he mulls the question over, "Ah, I can’t afford London on an army pension."

Stamford's eyes light up and he lets out a deep chuckle. "Ah, you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else," he says, eyeing John with a knowing, devious look. "That’s not the John Watson I know."

Before John can stop himself, the venom snaps out of him once again and he wishes like Hell that he could take it back. "Yeah, I’m not that John Watson," he snaps, instantly regretting the words, but he can't find it in himself to apologise. His hand twitches and he grips his cane, curling and uncurling his fingers around the handle as he chews the inside of his cheek. He shouldn't have even attempted to hold a conversation; if he'd been smart, he would've just kept on walking. It would've been better for everyone involved... 

"Couldn’t Harry help?" Mike asks, completely undeterred, and the concerned tone in his voice causes John's ears to prickle with interest.

He keeps his eyes on the cane in his hand, glancing at the other man briefly as he sucks in a breath, "Yeah, like that’s gonna happen…" It's strange to think that Mike actually remembers his family situation, but he lets himself take comfort in the fact that someone outside of himself might actually care.

Mike hums to himself for a moment, pausing to think. He seems to genuinely be trying to help and John is vaguely aware of the pills in his pocket, but somehow his desire to use them seems to be fading as their conversation continues. 

"I don’t know," Mike says, shrugging his shoulder before looking John over briefly, "You could get a flat share or something?"

The question throws John for a loop and he's surprised at the laughter that bubbles up in his chest. He doesn't let it out completely, but it's there all the same. It fills his entire body with warmth, lighting a comforting fire down deep in his belly as he shrugs his shoulders slightly. "C’mon…" he says, doing his best to reiterate his current situation to the other man. "Who’d want me for a flatmate?"

His attempts to thwart Mike Stamford fall flat, however, as the man only eyes him curiously. There's a strangely interested glint to the man's gaze and John licks his lips as his mind starts to wonder just how much the man actually remembers about the ‘old’ John Watson. "What?" he asks, suddenly feeling self conscious.

"Well," Mike says, seemingly mulling his words over before settling on what to say. "You’re the second person to say that to me today…"

John's heart skips a beat even though his brow furrows almost instantly. It's a strange turn of events, something undoubtedly unusual that should give John pause, but he ignores it. There's a fluttery feeling in his chest that threatens to consume him as hope begins to well up like a spring inside of him, restoring a sense of serenity to his tortured soul. The pills in his pocket are long forgotten now as the thrill of adventure grips his curious heart and forces the next words from his lips: "Who was the first?"


End file.
